


The Horror of Our Love

by capeswithhoods



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeswithhoods/pseuds/capeswithhoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan has a rather gruesome pastime that he's been pretty good at keeping secret until he meets Montparnasse, who not only knows just what Jehan does at night, but is probably just as dangerous as his smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Horror of Our Love

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. I fell into a ship and also wanted a 'verse where Jehan is a serial killer so yeah that's what this is. This chapter is mad tame but I plan on writing some gruesome ass shit later on so consider this a preemptive warning.

Silence surrounds Jehan, and the stars overhead twinkle dimly through the light pollution of the city in a way that inspires a poem in him. He is alone now, or as alone as one can be while sitting next to a slowly cooling body. He glances down at the dark hair of the dead man, and after a moment he runs his fingertips through it, still sticky with blood as he combs the short strands away from his forehead.

He sighs and closes his eyes and thinks about all of the directions this man's life could have gone of he hadn't collided with Jehan. He's certain he wouldn't have changed, not for the better. He wouldn't have become a better person, people like him seldom do. Though, Jehan supposes it's not really his place to judge one's character doing what he does.

There is definitely poetry here.

\------

Morning comes as always, bright colours bursting along the horizon, and Jehan watches with rapt fascination through a café window, as if he hasn't watched a thousand sunrises in his life, as if he won't watch a thousand more. The deep reds make him think of the blood from the night before, pooling thick against concrete, almost soaking into his shoes when he wasn't paying attention. He'll be more careful next time, he tells himself, and he knows he'll try, at the very least.

He hasn't been caught yet, and he supposes that's what makes him just a bit careless. It's not the smartest way to go about things, but Jehan isn't stupid enough to _really_ slip up anyway.

Or so he tells himself as he scribbles down vivid descriptions of a bloody sunrise over the sleepy city.

"I know what you did," a voice drawls from across the table, and Jehan has been so wrapped up in his poem that he's startled by the sudden presence.

"I'm sorry?" he says, tucking a ribbon between the pages and closing his notebook with delicate, ink stained fingers.

The boy sitting across from him looks familiar, though Jehan can't place why. "I _know_ what you _did_ ," he repeats, and there is a cold look in his eyes that is even more familiar than his face. "That man you were with last night, he was a friend of mine. Well, I _say_ friend..." He leaves the sentence hanging, leans forward onto the table and props his head up on his hands watching Jehan the way a cat watches a particularly delicious bird.

"I'm not certain I know what you're talking about," Jehan says quietly, and he's not frightened, but there is a cold prickle of unease down his spine. Whether it's from the boy's words or simply his presence, Jehan can't tell, and he doesn't know which would be worse.

He smiles like a knife and Jehan has to refrain from opening his notebook and jotting down metaphors. "Yeah you do. And I know juuust what you are."

Jehan's fingers tighten subconsciously around his pen, making the boy laugh, and the sound tugs at him in ways he could write sonnets about. "I'm not so sure you do."

"Why's that, sweetheart? You think I'd turn you in? Nah, I'm too _curious_ to do _that_."

Jehan furrows his brow in confusion. "Curious about what?"

And there's that smile again, like a switchblade glinting in the moonlight (Jehan knows all about that imagery). "How such a pretty little thing can be so... mmm, you're the poet, right? Why don't you help me find the right word."

"...Intense?"

" _Monstrous_ ," he says, barely giving Jehan time to finish speaking. "But don't worry, I like that about you."

Jehan isn't sure what to make of the exchange, and he's only slightly offended at being called a monster. He means to ask what exactly he expects to come of their conversation, but he gets lost in a jumble of his own thoughts and the boy is already standing and heading toward the café door.

"Name's Montparnasse. Be seein' you around, sweet thing," he says with a half-hearted wave and a smile that actually seems genuine despite showing as many teeth as before, leaving Jehan's pulse racing for multiple reasons as he disappears out onto the street.

\------

By any logical train of thought, Jehan should have packed his things and gotten as far away from Paris as possible, but he likes it here, and it's been a week since his run-in with Montparnasse without any incident or indication that their encounter had even happened. It's that false sense of security that lends to him being caught completely off guard the next time he runs into the boy.

Montparnasse is sitting at his table in the café - it's in the corner, next to the window with a perfect view of the café's other patrons _and_ the city - and everyone _knows_ it's his table, even the baristas. He's here every day before and after work, a creature of habit despite the dangers of it, and the woman behind the counter - Musichetta (Jehan has written her plenty of scrawling poems on napkins) - gives him an apologetic look as he orders his tea and croissant.

Jehan, to his credit, is very polite as he approaches his table, though a frown tugs at his lips when he sees that Montparnasse has his feet propped up on the other chair across from him. "Do you mind if I sit?" he asks, barely keeping the edge out of his voice.

"By all means, sweet thing," Montparnasse says with a smile, pulling his feet down and sitting up straighter in one fluid motion. Jehan can't help but think about the way his muscles must look moving against his skin, beneath his clothes, and a light flush rises to his cheeks. "I've been _waitin'_ for you."

Which explains why he'd taken his seat, but it doesn't allay any of the annoyance or unease within Jehan. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asks, setting his food and drink down as he slides into the seat (back to the café, and it puts him even more on edge, because being around Montparnasse already feels like a knife pressed against his throat.)

"Oh, you know. Told you I'd be seein' you, and here I am. Man of my word, you understand." He grins and slides his sunglasses off, tucking an arm of them into the collar of his shirt to let them hang carelessly. "Figured this was as good a place as any to get your attention."

"You certainly have it," Jehan replies cooly."Now what do you want with it?"

Montparnasse shrugs, and Jehan is reminded of a large cat, a predator waiting to strike. "Dinner, maybe. Tonight. Or drinks. Or _both_ , if I'm lucky."

Jehan is yet again caught off guard by this boy, and the smile on Montparnasse's face confirms that his confusion shows openly on his own. "Dinner?"

"Did I stutter? I wanna take you out."

"Are you even old enough to drink?" Jehan asks dumbly, floundering for some excuse to say no, because there are so many warning bells going off in his head that he feels dizzy.

A sharp laugh comes from Montparnasse, and he leans forward in his chair. "Honey, I've been old enough for years," he purrs, and Jehan isn't sure if he's lying, but he supposes he should stop thinking of him as a _boy_.

"...Dinner, then," Jehan says against his better judgement, not taking his eyes off of Montparnasse even as he lifts his tea to take a sip.

"No drinks?"

"We'll see."

Montparnasse smiles easily and licks his lips, not bothering to hide his pleasure or his interest, and Jehan can feel his face burning again. "I'll pick you up at eight thirty, how's that sound?"

"I could meet you instead. Just tell me where."

"Oh, I get it." He pauses in consideration, then murmurs, "Yeah, alright. You meet me here at eight thirty and I'll take you to dinner." Montparnasse glances around, letting his gaze linger among the other patrons of the café before settling back on Jehan with a cool intensity. "Promise it'll be the best damn dinner of your life."

"I've had better food than I'm sure you can afford," Jehan says flatly, if only to deflate Montparnasse just a bit, but it only makes the man laugh, and Jehan's fingers trace around the tip of the pen he's still gripping tightly, swirling black ink into the whorls of his fingerprints.

"Oh, sweet thing, I wasn't talking about the food, I was talking about the atmosphere and the _company_."

"Awfully confident of you."

"I know." And there's that switchblade smile again, right to Jehan's gut in the worst(best) of ways.


End file.
